were taking
away the joy of sunshine, casting a blot, like an unforgivablehoard, on
the very search and domestic twilight peace that she did not understand. The seascapes lost
their color, in the midst of this remarkable mobilization she began to feel cheated. Ernst
was gone for that week, and the old house was sealed tight though they squeezed through the
doors and windows. Jutta was more rude than usual.
The seventh morning was freakishly cool. All the light was gone, the fruit
flat, the clatter of servants obtrusive and harsh, bands playing in the park were loud and
off key. They settled down. The old man beat about the empty halls quicker than usual, the
brothers whispered, the entire ring of dark chambers was gathered, not wistful but strained,
unhappily into the tight present. Men were pushed first on one shoulder, then on the other,
off into the grey line, and the whole house from rafters of teak to chests of wine began to
shiver. That morning the mother stepped out of the bed as if alive, stared for one moment
about her in the unpleasant shadows and with exact stoic movements began to dress and
became, gradually, monstrously large. She was dressed in a long black gown, heavy grey
gloves, a tight ruffled collar, and a hat with an enormous drooping brim that made the dark
patches around her eyes and in the cheeks more prominent, more like injuries to hide. At one
time, years ago, the mother had left the father and had come back three months later thin as
a rail, lovely. Now her age hung upon her in unlovely touches, though she stepped out today
as if to make one last effort to slough them off. Her black patches were fierce and when it
was known that she was up, the house fell into silence, though the father still moved
fitfully, getting in the way, as if something were wrong. The mother had somewhere forgottenabout morals, self-conquest and the realm to come. She was too weighted
down, it was time to go, for age filled in the lacking spaces.
Stella carried the deep basket, the streets were empty, a few luminous
clouds blew hastily across the horizon beneath a smoke-black overcast thousands of feet
higher. She took her mother’s arm in a gesture, warmly, of confidence.
“I will have those lemons, please.” The bald-headed man dropped them in,
flapped his apron at a pink-nosed dog. Flies hung over the blue meat.
“Potatoes.” They rolled among the lemons in dust. The silly girl spilled the
money on the counter, it grew darker.
“Apples.” From the trees, the branches, sprinkled with water, green leaves.
The basket began to fill, the vendor limped.
Live fowl in a dirty cage were silent, claws gripping the rods caked with
lime, eyes blinking at each movement.
“Melons, your father likes melons.” They were scarred and green and made the
basket heavier. The grocer’s boy peeped out from behind a hogshead of cheese, red tongue
wagging, bare feet scuffing the sawdust.
The mother and girl began to cross the street.
ERNST
Behind them one of the chickens began to scream, and a speck appeared in
the sky.
“I think I must stop and buy some flowers.” A few loiterers got out of their
way, the old woman considered her list.
“You don’t want to make yourself tired, Mother.”
The day was peculiarly uninteresting, a deliberately cold day with all the
summer bugs taken to cover, a few shrubs turned under and splashed dismally with a final
blue, all open windows shaded, sleepers uncomfortable, a few omnibuses swaying to and fro,
empty, unhurried.
“I think I’ll get … ,” said the mother, but spoke nothing more, looking with
the utmost distaste upon her desolate native avenue, facades smothered with an uneven hand,
scant twigs swept into the drains, not a single mortal. That was all.
The policeman’s call faded into nonsense, into unutterable confusion as the
speck fell quickly from the sky, two small leathered heads trapped in
away the joy of sunshine, casting a blot, like an unforgivablehoard, on
the very search and domestic twilight peace that she did not understand. The seascapes lost
their color, in the midst of this remarkable mobilization she began to feel cheated. Ernst
was gone for that week, and the old house was sealed tight though they squeezed through the
doors and windows. Jutta was more rude than usual.
The seventh morning was freakishly cool. All the light was gone, the fruit
flat, the clatter of servants obtrusive and harsh, bands playing in the park were loud and
off key. They settled down. The old man beat about the empty halls quicker than usual, the
brothers whispered, the entire ring of dark chambers was gathered, not wistful but strained,
unhappily into the tight present. Men were pushed first on one shoulder, then on the other,
off into the grey line, and the whole house from rafters of teak to chests of wine began to
shiver. That morning the mother stepped out of the bed as if alive, stared for one moment
about her in the unpleasant shadows and with exact stoic movements began to dress and
became, gradually, monstrously large. She was dressed in a long black gown, heavy grey
gloves, a tight ruffled collar, and a hat with an enormous drooping brim that made the dark
patches around her eyes and in the cheeks more prominent, more like injuries to hide. At one
time, years ago, the mother had left the father and had come back three months later thin as
a rail, lovely. Now her age hung upon her in unlovely touches, though she stepped out today
as if to make one last effort to slough them off. Her black patches were fierce and when it
was known that she was up, the house fell into silence, though the father still moved
fitfully, getting in the way, as if something were wrong. The mother had somewhere forgottenabout morals, self-conquest and the realm to come. She was too weighted
down, it was time to go, for age filled in the lacking spaces.
Stella carried the deep basket, the streets were empty, a few luminous
clouds blew hastily across the horizon beneath a smoke-black overcast thousands of feet
higher. She took her mother’s arm in a gesture, warmly, of confidence.
“I will have those lemons, please.” The bald-headed man dropped them in,
flapped his apron at a pink-nosed dog. Flies hung over the blue meat.
“Potatoes.” They rolled among the lemons in dust. The silly girl spilled the
money on the counter, it grew darker.
“Apples.” From the trees, the branches, sprinkled with water, green leaves.
The basket began to fill, the vendor limped.
Live fowl in a dirty cage were silent, claws gripping the rods caked with
lime, eyes blinking at each movement.
“Melons, your father likes melons.” They were scarred and green and made the
basket heavier. The grocer’s boy peeped out from behind a hogshead of cheese, red tongue
wagging, bare feet scuffing the sawdust.
The mother and girl began to cross the street.
ERNST
Behind them one of the chickens began to scream, and a speck appeared in
the sky.
“I think I must stop and buy some flowers.” A few loiterers got out of their
way, the old woman considered her list.
“You don’t want to make yourself tired, Mother.”
The day was peculiarly uninteresting, a deliberately cold day with all the
summer bugs taken to cover, a few shrubs turned under and splashed dismally with a final
blue, all open windows shaded, sleepers uncomfortable, a few omnibuses swaying to and fro,
empty, unhurried.
“I think I’ll get … ,” said the mother, but spoke nothing more, looking with
the utmost distaste upon her desolate native avenue, facades smothered with an uneven hand,
scant twigs swept into the drains, not a single mortal. That was all.
The policeman’s call faded into nonsense, into unutterable confusion as the
speck fell quickly from the sky, two small leathered heads trapped in
Similar Books
